Reflections
by Curondhil
Summary: As his soul is at stake, the Dragonborn must make another decision.


_Just a little something. A desperate attempt to overcome writer's block and depression._

_Please tell me what you think._

* * *

The Twilight Sepulcher looked exactly as it had years ago, when he had returned the key. The deafening silence seemed to scream at him while the shadows blinded him. Dovahkiin was here for a reason. For weeks he had made it a habit to return to this place whenever he could, knowing what he would have to do eventually.

The shadows around him seemed alive, telling him stories he had already known, things he had felt deep inside. Truths he wanted to ignore.

And he started thinking. A dangerous thing, to let your thoughts run free, for with reflection comes realization, and the truth always hurts. If there is such a thing as truth...

He shook his head and let his thoughts wander back to his predecessor.

Mercer Frey had been no hero.

This might sound obvious, considering his chosen line of work, but to him it made all the difference.

It is only a hero who is given the chance to decide his own fate. A blessing to some, a curse to others. Only a handful of such individuals have been born in the history of Tamriel. The Nereveraine, the Champion of Cyrodiil, the Dragonborn...

Nocturnal not only approved of his actions, no, she had never given him a choice. He was a pawn in a play, directed by the Lady of Murk. Their agreement was simple. He would protect the Twilight Sepulcher, and she would grant him power. So not only his life, but also his afterlife was lost to him. The only escape was betrayal. He had to fail his part of the contract – but there was noone to protect the Sepulcher from. Who would dare steal from Nocturnal? So he did the only thing he could do. He became the threat, he became what he had promised to fight.

If anyone had had the opportunity to ask him, Mercer Frey would have answered that all he wanted to do was to make his own decisions. But he was no hero. His destiny was written in stone, and for him there was no escape.

Maybe this was why he hated the dragonborn from the very moment they met. Frey knew, he could feel the shift in the wind. He could smell the freedom the other possessed, the freedom he himself would never know.

Surely he also had the freedom to get himself killed. Or so Frey had hoped. However, once again Nocturnal had other plans for him.

His miserable life ended that day in the ruins of Irknthand. And although with his last breath he begged for the shadows to take him, he finally got his heart's desire. He got his freedom, if only in death. There would be no servitude to Nocturnal, no merging with the shadows in the Ebonmere.

The Dragonborn did not know where Mercer Frey was now. Since he had been no Nord, there was little chance of them meeting in Sovgarde one day.

However, this was not only due to Mercer Frey being Breton, but also to the vows Dovahkiin had made... the same vows Frey had made thirty years before.

And once again, a Nightingale stood in the Twilight Sepulcher. He circled the Skeleton Key in its pedestal like a sabre cat stalking its prey. And he thought. About the past, about Mercer Frey, Nocturnal's sick sense of humour, and his own destiny.

He was Dragonborn. He would make his own decisions. And while he felt he had been tricked into an eternity of servitude to the Mistress of Murk, he was also convinced that if anyone could escape his fate, it was him.

And while he had hated his previous guildmaster for trying to kill him, and even slit said man's throat feeling nothing but satisfaction, on this day he understood. He sympathized, and he pitied the old man. And he saw himself become another Mercer Frey as his hands reached for the key, and he could swear he heard Nocturnal's laughter in his ears.

And so the game began anew. More entertainment for the Lady of Shadows, and a new nightmare for the thieves to come.

A new adventure, and a new story, to be told by the next hero to return the key to its rightful place.


End file.
